


secret garden

by intextrovert



Category: Portrait de la jeune fille en feu | Portrait of a Lady on Fire (2019)
Genre: F/F, I said I wasn't gonna do this but I did, Notting Hill AU, dammit, oh well
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-16 02:22:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29446242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intextrovert/pseuds/intextrovert
Summary: Can the most famous film star in the world fall for just an ordinary girl?Notting Hill AU.
Relationships: Héloïse/Marianne (Portrait of a Lady on Fire)
Comments: 27
Kudos: 69





	1. Surreal, but nice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is happening. Ugh.  
> I owe thanks to several people for their insistence that I try and write this thing.  
> But mostly, thanks to Richard Curtis, for the splendid movie, and also for all the dialogue that I am shamelessly borrowing (with no intention to make a profit from etc etc).

_”_ _Stay with us, because later this evening we’re lucky enough to be talking to Marianne Robineau – the young frenchwoman who is taking Hollywood by storm. Robineau’s latest film is currently topping the charts and..”_

Héloïse reached for the remote and muted the TV as it went to commercials. She didn’t care that much for movies, or celebrities, and didn’t want the overly energetic babble of a reporter as background noise when she turned her attention back to the crossword currently resting in her lap. It was a regular weekday evening, which meant she would finish her tea, maybe catch the late news on tv and then head off to bed at a somewhat decent hour.

Some would probably call her life boring – and out of the thousands upon thousands of people in their late twenties that inhabited London, Héloïse probably led a quieter-than-average life – but she’d always been more of a silent observer than a person who thrived in the center of attention.

In short – small things, like taking a spontaneous detour through a park on her walk to work in the morning, watching the ever-changing flow of people on the streets, or cycling along the Thames as the seasons came and went was more important to her than spending hours lined up for whichever nightclub was deemed the place to be on one specific weekend.

She finished off her crossword by neatly scribbling _”Brunei”_ on across 14 and glanced at the TV, where the commercial break was over, and a tall, dark haired woman her own age was smiling politely, probably at something the interviewer just said.

Marianne Robineau, Héloïse observed. You had to have been living under a rock for the last couple of years to not know who that was. She’d burst into the consciousness of mainstream Hollywood a handful of years ago via a French Oscars-selection, that saw her pinching Best Actress in tough contention with the créme de la créme of anglophone stars. That breakthrough was rapidly followed by a supporting role in a high-profile British war drama, and after that her road had been paved straight onto the global cinema A-list and it’s red-carpeted world. And truth be told – the fact that she was tall, graceful and had the most expressive eyes in the business probably didn’t hurt either.

For a second Héloïse found herself wondering what life was like in the public eye. She wasn’t one for gossip – of the celebrity variety or among her friends – and rarely kept up with the news outside of politics, culture and sports. In her friend group she was the quiet, reasonable character. The “mum friend”, as her best friend Matthieu usually described her.

On the TV, Marianne Robineau was ushered away down a red carpet in a sunny city halfway across the world, looking every bit the movie star she was, and after turning the volume back up for a short and unsurprisingly depressing news update, Héloïse went to bed contemplating the recent developments in the war on Balkan, the overflow of Scandinavian crime novels in contemporary literature, and how on earth she was going to make her flatmate remember her cleaning duties.

* * *

A couple of days later, Héloïse was flipping through the newspaper and eating her breakfast – oatmeal, like every weekday unless the outdoor temperature was in the twenties or above – when she was abruptly interrupted by rumbling footsteps down the staircase, soon followed by an excited greeting. That, in hindsight was the first sign of how this day would not be like most other wednesdays.

”Hélo!”

Once every three months or so, her flatmate, Sophie, got out of bed before Héloïse left for work. Apparently today was one of those rare occurrences.

”Soph, I’m reading. Also, what on earth are you doing up at” she looked at the clock on the kitchen wall ”seven-fifteen? Is the world about to end?”

”Sorry. No, world’s not ending, not as far as I know anyway,” the tiny, brown-haired girl replied, only to be faced with one of Héloïse’s stern stares, silently telling her to get to whatever point she wanted to make or be down-prioritised in favour of the newspaper.

”Um, yeah, so the reason I got up so early is because I need your help with an incredibly important decision.”

”This is important, in comparison to, um, let’s say whether they should cancel third world debt?” Héloïse grumbled with her mouth full of porridge.

”Well, almost. I’m going out for breakfast with a couple of colleagues before work today, and David’s gonna be there and I need your help to pick an outfit, because, you know, I wanna look nice because David..” Sophie rambled, completely oblivious to the way Héloïse rolled her eyes.

She took a deep sigh, kept staring at Sophie and impatiently waited for her to stop babbling.

”First off, Soph – you always wear the same type of clothes, unless it’s a wedding or a funeral.” Sophie hummed in agreement.

”Secondly, I’m pretty sure that the evolution of your relationship with David does anything but depend on which one of the fifteen floral-patterned dresses worn with brightly coloured pantyhose, Docs and cardigan you decide to bring out of your closet today.”

”I guess you have a point,” Sophie said.

“There’s nothing wrong with your flowery dresses. They’re all very cute, but I just can’t see how one would make a big difference over another.”

“True. Thanks anyway,” Sophie said and headed back up the stairs.

Héloïse shook her head, muttering to herself. ”Did she really get up this early only to ask me of all people for clothing advice?”

”Yes, I did!” Sophie shouted from the second floor.

* * *

Héloïse walked to work, half-enjoying the very nondescript spring weather and dreading the upcoming stock inventory that was planned. Work in her case was a small travel bookshop, inherited from her great uncle, and now run by Héloïse with the help of an eccentric man called Martin. And despite Héloïse’s genuine fondness for literature, and organisation – counting a whole shop’s worth of books was not very enjoyable.

”Morning, Martin,” Héloïse said as she stepped through the door, flipping the front door sign from closed to open as she went.

“Bonjour, mademoiselle!” Martin replied.

She slipped past the counter and into the cramped pantry that made up most of the back area, stuffed her lunchbox with leftover pasta in the fridge and hung her canvas bag on the back of a chair.

”Hey, you want me to go grab us some coffee before we get started with this inventory mess?” Martin asked when Héloïse reappeared.

”Yeah, sure. Just a regular cappu for me, thanks.”

”Coming right up,” Martin said and promptly left for the coffee shop a few blocks down the street.

Héloïse sighed, and opened the stock list on the bulky old PC. They could really use a new computer, to be honest. This one was so slow it was borderline ridiculous, and no amount of reboots seemed to help.

As if on cue, the device in front of her made a loud buzzing noise, the kind of noise that no healthy computer should be making, and Héloïse added it to her mental list of things she’d have to ask Matthieu to help her fix.

Thinking about it, the broken coffee machine that had been gathering dust in the pantry since last October should probably be put on top of that list too. Brewing their own coffee instead of buying all the time could – considering their combined average caffeine consumption – save them a lot of money, money that could be used for a new computer. Sadly, it would also rob Martin of his favourite way of procrastination – flirting with the baristas over at the coffee shop, and Héloïse had a nagging feeling that her colleague might oppose the whole fix-the-coffee-machine-scenario because of that small detail.

The shrill sound of the doorbell jingling, announcing the arrival of the first customer of the day, interrupted Héloïse in her coffee-and-economics-related musings.

Walking through the door was a girl – no, woman – about her own age, dark hair held back in a ponytail with a few loose tendrils escaped by her ears. She was casually dressed but curiously enough wearing both a baseball cap and large sunglasses even though it was fairly cloudy out. She headed towards the Mediterranean section, stopped and tilted her head a little to easier read the names on the spines.

”Good morning. Um, let me know if you need any help,” Héloïse said, sighing internally. She’d been working in the bookshop on and off since her late teens, and took over full time several years ago, and yet she still felt unreasonably awkward whenever she interacted with customers unless they had addressed her first. She wasn’t even sure why she bothered sometimes, but when Martin was elsewhere she felt like she had to at least try.

The woman turned toward Héloïse, studying her from behind her sunglasses.

”I’m good thanks, just looking around.” She had a familiar accent – to Héloïse, hearing it felt like putting on a beanie that had been worn so many times it had molded to the exact shape of her own head. Nothing obvious, just that little hint around the edges of the vowels, the outline of the r:s.

Héloïse gave her a vague nod and turned her attention to a few other people who had trickled into the bookshop.

Still, she caught herself glancing at the woman in the cap over and over again. Héloïse was not above admitting to herself that yes, she was beautiful. But there was also something weirdly familiar about her, and that feeling, combined with the accent, had poked Héloïse’s interest. When the woman took an actual disaster of a book from the shelf, flipping though a couple of pages, Héloïse couldn’t help herself. Really, it was her professional pride that made her intervene.

”Ce livre ça, c'est vraiment pas génial,” she blurted out in French.

The woman gave her a questioning look but said nothing.

”Just.. just in case you were thinking about buying it, I mean,” Héloïse stuttered, switching back to English, and feeling her ears getting warm. ”You’d be wasting your money.”

She felt the blush spreading to her cheeks under the woman’s curious gaze, and tried with all her might to stop the incoming ramble, but alas. Héloïse Marchand was good at a lot of things – not talking passionately about her opinions on books was decidedly **not** one of them.

”But if it’s Turkey you’re interested in, this one on the other hand, is very good,” Héloïse continued, grabbing a paperback from a pile of books on the counter. ”Um, I’m pretty sure the person who wrote it has actually been to Turkey, which helps. There’s also a very amusing incident with a kebab. Which is one of many amusing incidents. It’s written a bit like a novel, this one, which makes it a really enjoyable read, while still informative. And it explains the kebab, I guess..” Héloïse trailed off, feeling slightly mortified.

”Well, thanks for the suggestion,” the woman said in a very neutral voice.

”Or, in the bigger hardback variety there’s..” Héloïse came to a halt mid word-vomit and glanced at the small security screen that was stood on a shelf behind the counter. Excusing herself, she made her way over to the back room of the store, where the books on Asia, Oceania and the Pacific were kept.

That entire section had been the cause of an argument between her and Martin when they re-organized the shop a couple of months back, with Héloïse insisting that Hawaii, while technically belonging to the USA, geographically and culturally counted as Pacific and thus belonged in that section, and Martin in return insisting that Héloïse was ”a nerd” and that ”no-one cared anyway”.

It ended with Hawaii in the North American section, for spatial reasons, and Héloïse refusing to speak to Martin for two and a half days.

A nondescript-looking guy stood there, seemingly browsing the titles, and appeared a little startled when Héloïse addressed him.

”Excuse me, sir, bad news.”

The man slowly turned and looked at her, wearing what he must’ve thought was a convincing and innocent frown.

”Well, we’ve got a security camera in this bookshop,” Héloïse explained.

”So?” The man clearly didn’t want to acknowledge where the conversation was heading.

”So I saw you put that book down your trousers.”

”What book?”

Holy pancakes, this guy was really gonna try to act dumb to get out of the whole situation.

”The one down your trousers,” Héloïse insisted.

”I don’t have a book down my trousers.”

”Right,” Héloïse said, and perhaps it came out a bit more harsh than she had planned. To be fair – at this point, she had to concentrate kind of hard to not roll her eyes at him. She studied his wrinkly, untucked shirt and nondescript jacket while making up her mind. ”I’ll tell you what,” she continued, “I’ll call the police and.. what can I say, if I’m wrong about the whole book down your trousers-scenario I sincerely apologize-”

”Okay. So what if I _did_ have a book down my trousers?”

”Well, ideally, when I went back to the desk you’d.. remove the copy of _Cadogan’s Guide to Bali_ from your trousers – great book by the way, very informative – and.. either wipe it off and put it back, or buy it. I’ll see you in a sec.”

With that, Héloïse ambled back to the counter, where the woman in the cap was waiting with a smirk on her face.

”I’m sorry about that,” Héloïse mumbled.

”No, it’s fine. I was gonna steal one but now I’ve changed my mind,” Woman With Horrible Taste In Travel Books replied in a tone of voice that made Héloïse’s ears heat up yet again. Despite Héloïse’s attempt to discourage her she was still holding that terrible travel guide, idly flipping through the pages. In its defense, the photographs were excellent. Didn’t make up for the disaster writing, but still.

”Oh, signed by the author I see,” she said with a hint of a smile, a smile that made Héloïse almost forgive the writer of the book for being such an awful writer, because that smile. Oh wow. It did things to Héloïse. Things like making her fantasize about being on the receiving end of an infinite amount of those smiles, and maybe even being the cause of some of them. Héloïse stopped her brain right before it started plotting out actual ways to make her smile again. She was not going to go there. Not now. Not ever.

”Um, yeah. Couldn’t stop him. If you could find an unsigned one it’s worth an absolute fortune,” Héloïse said weakly.

Then it happened. The guy with the book down his trousers reappeared, thankfully sans book, and the moment he opened his mouth, Héloïse was struck with a sudden realization. Woman With Horrible Taste In Travel Books had seemed familiar for a reason.

”Excuse me, could I have your autograph?” the aspiring book thief asked, and as the woman said, with what Héloïse assumed was well-rehearsed politeness, ”Sure. Let me just find a pen,” Héloïse experienced a minor epiphany.

Some days ago she had seen Marianne Robineau flash by on her TV, every bit as unreal as any movie star was to a regular person like Héloïse, and now here she was, standing in her bookshop, casually gorgeous in jeans, t-shirt and a light jacket. Holding a horrible book that Héloïse already had promised herself to never stock more copies of again, no less.

At that moment, Héloïse really wanted to be anywhere but behind the counter of her own shop. She wouldn’t be opposed to being abruptly teleported to Iceland or something, in fact, anything would be less uncomfortable than standing here, watching Marianne Robineau scribble down a greeting on a notepad for a sleazy guy who tried to steal books.

Héloïse felt her skin crawl, which was ridiculous because Woman With Horrible Taste In Travel Books had made her flustered and nervous for several minutes before Héloïse even realized who she was, but now, knowing that she was a celebrity – someone adored, and objectified, by millions of people – Héloïse chastised herself for the butterflies she’d gotten when she had smiled at her in the first place.

It didn’t make any sense, Héloïse knew her brain was being more unreasonable than usual, but the sleazy guy made her feel like a creep-by-association, or something.

“What’s your name?” Marianne asked the guy, then added a few more words to the notepad and handed it back to him.

“What does it say?” he asked.

“That’s my signature, and above it it says Dear Rufus, you belong in jail.”

Sleazy guy looked down at his notepad with a content smile. Apparently he wasn’t very well versed in the ways of reading signals, because just as Marianne distanced herself from him, he asked if she would like his phone number.

Héloïse almost sank through the earth from second-hand embarrassment. Would he please just leave the poor woman alone?

”Tempting, but no.. thank you,” Marianne said with a distinct air of get-out-of-my-sight to her voice. Sleazy guy thankfully managed to take that hint, and walked out of the shop.

Héloïse scratched her neck, looking anywhere but at Marianne.

”I will take this one,” Marianne said and handed her the horrible travel book, signed by the author and all.

Oh. Apparently Héloïse’s trash-talk of said book hadn’t been discouraging enough. Awkward.

”Alright, right. So, well, second thoughts, maybe it’s not that bad after all.” Héloïse said, trying to smooth over her earlier criticism and glanced at Marianne who gave her another faint smile, which honestly only made things worse as it shocked Héloïse into another spout of word-vomit. ”Actually, it’s a sort of classic.. really..” she stuttered. ”None of those childish kebab-stories that you find in so many books these days. And, um.. I’ll tell you what – I’ll throw in one of those for free.” Héloïse grabbed a copy of the book she’d actually recommended, and thrust it in the bag too. ”Useful for.. lighting fires, wrapping fish, paper planes, that sort of thing.”

”Thanks,” Marianne said and handed Héloïse twenty-five pounds in very unwrinkled notes.

”Pleasure,” Héloïse mumbled in reply and handed Marianne the bag with her books.

And with that, Marianne Robineau put her sunglasses back on and exited the bookshop, leaving nothing but the faint tingle of the doorbell and a very confunded Héloïse behind. The whole scenario had been so absurd, Héloïse already doubted if it had occurred at all. Martin sure as hell wouldn’t believe her if she told him. Marianne Robineau and a book thief. Héloïse shook her head, walking over to the storefront window and looked out on the street, almost expecting an alien invasion to be in full effect. That would be on par for the day.

* * *

A couple of minutes later, Martin came barging through the door carrying two cups and a paper bag.

”One cappu, as ordered.” He handed Héloïse the larger of the cups, and proceeded to grab a muffin out of the bag.

”Thanks.”

Héloïse hesitated because the whole scenario had been so absurd, but she decided to tell Martin just who had bought a terrible book about Turkey while he had been away.

”I don’t think you’d believe who was just in here.”

”Who? Someone famous?” Martin asked, and the casual disbelief in his voice made Héloïse instantly backtrack into a cloud of regret.

”Naah..”

”It would be exciting though, wouldn’t it, if someone famous came into the shop?” Martin continued, completely oblivious and voice muffled by the muffin. ”Do you know, this is.. this is pretty amazing actually, but I once saw Ringo Starr.”

”Where was that?” Héloïse asked.

”Kensington High Street. At least I think it was Ringo. It might have been that man from Fiddler On The Roof – you know, Toppy.”

”Topol.”

”Yes. That’s right. Topol,” Martin agreed, brushing a few crumbs off his cardigan.

”Ringo Starr doesn’t look at all like Topol,” Héloïse pointed out with a slight frown.

”Well, he was quite a long way away from me.”

”Actually, it could have been neither of them.”

”Yes, I suppose so, yes.”

”It’s not a very good anecdote, is it?” Héloïse crossed her arms and leaned against the counter, causing a few leaflets for an open mic-night to become airborne and slowly make their way to the floor.

”Not a very good one, no,” Martin decided with a shrug off his shoulders, tossing his now empty cup into the trash can behind the counter. “Another?”

”Yeah, why not. I’ll go this time.” Héloïse was out the door before Martin had time to open his mouth in protest. She could use a breath of fresh air and a walk. To clear her head, and stuff.

* * *

She was on her way back from the coffeeshop, Martin’s weirdo frappuccino-concoction – that the baristas luckily had remembered (or written down) because Héloïse always forgot what on earth was in that thing – in one hand, and her own fresh orange juice in the other, and just about to turn a corner when two men, having a loud argument about the veggies that one of them appeared to be selling, caught her attention.

Héloïse honestly should have known better. Turning corners on busy pavements, while looking in a completely different direction never ends well. Never. One second she was looking at a red-faced man waving a tomato in another man’s general direction and carefully pronouncing every syllable of the word “pomodoro”, and the next thing she knew she had collided with something.

Someone.

Definitely a someone – whoever it was was, despite sort of elbowing Héloïse in the stomach and causing her to drop the cups she’d been holding, way too soft to be a lamp-post or police box or anything of the sort.

”Oooow! Putain de merde!”

Someone was also, Héloïse realized as she lifted her gaze from the cups scattered on the ground, wearing a t-shirt that used to be white, but now yellow all over the front thanks to Héloïse’s orange juice that had escaped its plastic prison during the collision.

”I’m so sorry! Here, let me..” Héloïse scrambled for the napkins she had stuffed in the back pocket of her jeans, and thrust them at the juice-soaked stranger’s chest.

”Get your hands off me!”

Shit. She knew that voice. Lots of people probably did, but she had already met the owner of said voice once this morning, and holy pancakes this day just kept getting more and more disastrous. Héloïse reluctantly looked up at a frowning Marianne Robineau.

”I-I’m really, really sorry.” Héloïse stammered. ”Look, I live just across the street. I have water and soap, you can get cleaned up.”

”Thank you, but I just need to get my car back,” Marianne Robineau said, while wiping her hands on the napkins and trying to un-stick the soaked t-shirt that was clinging to her stomach.

”I also have a phone, if you need to get a hold of someone, or something.” Héloïse continued. ”I’m confident that in five minutes we can have you back on the street again. In a non-prostituted sense obviously.”

At that, Marianne gave her a look that clearly, even through her sunglasses, said something along the lines of _again with the word vomit you unbelievable dork_. Then she seemed to actually consider the offer, with all the patience of a person wearing an uncomfortably wet and vaguely see-through t-shirt in a too public setting could muster.

”Alright, well, what do you mean just across the street?” she snapped. “Give it to me in meters.”

”Sixteen, and a half. That’s my house, there, with the blue front door,” Héloïse pointed past a couple of market stalls.

”Okay, fine,” Marianne groaned, gathered her bags, and followed Héloïse across the crowded pedestrian street.

”Come on in, I’ll just..” Héloïse started to regret her offer the second she unlocked the door and spotted the messy kitchen. Sophie must have left for her breakfast-brunch-thing already, judging by the forgotten dishes on the table and the sea of breadcrumbs in the sink.

”Right, right.. come in. It’s ehm.. not quite as tidy as it normally is I fear.”

Marianne didn’t seem too bothered, and just walked through the hallway and into the kitchen, past Héloïse who was rushing to move Sophie’s dishes off the table. She gave the blackboard where Héloïse had written ” **Sophie CLEAN UP!** ” in big block letters a curious look.

”So.. um, the bathroom is on the top floor, just keep going up the stairs. And the phone is on the wall just up there,” she gestured towards the first landing.

Then she regained a bit more of her footing and manners and reached for the bags Marianne were holding. ”Here, let me..”

Marianne handed her all of the bags except for one, which Héloïse assumed had clothes in it, and padded up the first flight of stairs.

”Round the corner and straight on up. Clean towels are in the cupboard.” Héloïse told, and remained frozen like a statue until she heard the bathroom door closing. Then she cursed under her breath and continued to take care of Sophie’s mess. Doing something felt way better than just waiting while the beautiful creature that she had spilled orange juice on got changed before exiting her life forever for the second time in less than an hour.

Marianne came down the stairs a couple of minutes later, wearing chinos and a loose tank top. Her hair was down instead of in the ponytail from before, and Héloïse felt her thoughts scattering in all directions. Firstly, how could anyone’s hair look so soft? Was there a magic shampoo only available to A-list celebrities? Secondly, she noticed that Marianne had swapped her pumps for a pair of sneakers and was in fact not taller, but the exact same height as her. Thirdly, how did one form proper sentences again, and what was she supposed to say now?

_Bye, have a nice life, sorry about the juice thing?_

After a short silence, with Marianne standing in Héloïse’s kitchen studying her like she was waiting for something interesting to happen, Héloïse settled on the most British thing she’d ever said:

”Would you like a cup of tea before you go?”

”No.”

Marianne didn’t sound bothered when she declined, more intrigued than anything else.

”Coffee?” Héloïse asked, because turning down tea was not necessarily the same as not wanting a drink, and she’d rather be on the safe side.

”No.”

”Orange juice? Probably not.” Héloïse groaned internally, and also realized that her own shirt was still very much soaked in orange juice. She hadn’t even thought about that.

”Ehm.. something else cold.. Coke? Water?” She opened the fridge and examined its contents. ”Some disgusting, sugary drink pretending to have something to do with fruits of the forest?”

”No.”

By now, Marianne’s voice had taken on a tinge of amusement, and Héloïse was well aware of the fact that she was most likely making a fool of herself, but she was too far gone in this nervous ramble to get herself unstuck. So she carried on, uselessly offering the smirking brunette snacks and beverages.

”Would you like something to eat? Something to nibble?” She found a weird-looking jar on one of Sophie’s shelves and took it out to read off the label.

”Apricots, soaked in honey? Why, no one knows – because it stops them from tasting of apricots and makes them taste like honey, and if you wanted honey you could just buy honey, instead of apricots. But nevertheless, they’re yours if you want them.”

”No,” Marianne said with all the certainty of someone who never, ever intended to eat apricots soaked in honey. Héloïse couldn’t blame her.

“Do you always say no to.. everything?” Héloïse asked then, feeling more than a little crestfallen but also mad at herself for saying something that could be interpreted as a terrible attempt at flirting. Partly because she had definitely not intended to say something flirty, and also because Héloïse hoped that if she actually did decide to try and flirt, she’d have more game than that.

Marianne thought about it for a little while, before sticking to her standard answer.

”No.”

Héloïse couldn’t stop a hint of a smile at that, as she nodded in understanding.

”I better get going. Thanks for your.. help,” Marianne said.

”You’re welcome,” Héloïse replied and leaned against the fridge door to shut it. ”And may I also say, heavenly,” she continued, averting her eyes the next second, right as Marianne gave her an inquisitive look.

”I’ll just take my one chance to say it,” Héloïse explained, eyes on the fridge, then the floor. ”After you’ve read that terrible book you’re certainly not going back to the bookshop.”

”Thank you,” Marianne said, quietly.

”Yeah, well.. my pleasure.”

Héloïse followed Marianne through the messy hallway and past her slightly neglected bike, to the door. There they stopped, opposite each other, sheltered from the outside world on the other side of it, but still somewhat a part of it thanks to all the noise sifting through the wood.

”So.. it was nice to meet you,” Héloïse said, feeling like she was repeating herself from minutes ago, despite not using the exact same words. ”Surreal, but.. um, but nice. Sorry.”

With that, Héloïse opened the door and let Marianne pass through. For the second time that day she stood alone in silence, this time still holding the door handle as if she needed to anchor herself to something, wondering if recent events had actually happened or if Sophie had put hallucinogens in her oatmeal by accident. That would at least explain her even more than usual tendency to word-vomit.

”Surreal but nice? What was I thinking?” Héloïse said to herself, shaking her head. She decided to go upstairs and change out of her juice-soaked shirt before heading back to work, via the coffee shop to get another of Martin’s weird frappuccinos, but barely made it into the kitchen before the doorbell rang.

”Hi! I forgot one of my bags.”

There was a smiling Marianne Robineau standing on Héloïse’s doorstep. An hour ago she would have laughed if anyone had told her that that would ever happen. Now Héloïse simply faltered a little before letting Marianne in. Again.

She went back into the kitchen, again, and indeed, there was a bag left on the stool where she had put all of Marianne’s purchases earlier. Grabbing the bag, she returned it to Marianne who was waiting in the hallway.

And there they were, once again sheltered from life, universe and everything by the false safety the rickety front door provided. Héloïse put her hands in her pockets, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. Opposite her, Marianne had returned to peering at Héloïse. As if she had a million questions that she wanted to ask but no words to ask them with. Her eyes were a fascinating mix of brown and green and gold – Héloïse hadn’t thought about it before but they were. Fascinating and curious. Marianne held her gaze, unwavering, and eventually Héloïse had to look away or she’d turn into a tomato for the nth time in about an hour.

She had just busied herself with looking at a crack in one of the floor tiles when she felt Marianne moving closer to her, Marianne putting her hand, her very soft and gentle hand, on Héloïse’s cheek.

Héloïse looked up, and was met with hazel and sunshine and gold, as Marianne Robineau leaned in a little, just a little bit, enough to delete the few inches left between them. It might have happened quickly, but it sure felt like slow-motion. And then they were kissing.

To be fair, the first second was only Marianne. Héloïse was dumbstruck, swaying slightly, still with her hands in her pockets – it was hard to keep balance with your arms pinned to your body and someone else leaning close to surprise you with a kiss.

The kiss was soft, but not meekly so. It was the kind of kiss that springs up seemingly out of nowhere, like a dandelion growing in the middle of an asphalt parking lot – random and with all odds against it, but stubborn and with enough viability to stay put.

Héloïse caught up after what felt like an eternity, she kissed back and felt Marianne moving even closer, felt Marianne’s body soften against her when she caught her lower lip between her own, felt herself go slightly weak at the knees at the sharp intake of breath that followed.

Just as Héloïse removed her hands from her pockets, to maybe hold Marianne’s hips, or tangle in her hair or just.. something, anything, Marianne backed off.

And the thing was, that when Héloïse opened her eyes, blinking twice as if to make sure that she was indeed awake and this hadn’t been some weird dream, she wasn’t looking at award-winning, Hollywood sweetheart, probably one of the most famous people in the world, actress Marianne Robineau.

Well, she saw her too, but that was not the point.

Who she saw was just a girl, not too unlike herself, who had just thrown all reason and logic aside and done something based on instinct, or a hunch of something undefinable.

Héloïse could respect that. And holy pancakes could Marianne Robineau kiss. Héloïse’s heart was beating a mile a minute.

For all the steady gazes she had directed at Héloïse so far, now Marianne’s eyes were flickering. From Héloïse’s eyes to the floor to the painting on the wall, to the huge juice-stain on Héloïse’s pale blue shirt and back again. To her lips. She looked small, and unsure, maybe even regretful, and Héloïse didn’t know what to do.

”I’m really sorry about the surreal but nice comment. Disaster,” she mumbled after a while, mostly to break the silence.

”It’s okay, I thought the.. the apricots in honey thing was the real low point,” Marianne said, once again looking straight at Héloïse, dazed but suddenly way more certain.

And simply because this was the least comprehensible Wednesday of Héloïse Marchand’s life, the front door flung open and Sophie, dressed in a gigantic hoodie and a general air of misery, stomped past them.

”Oh my god. My flatmate. I’m sorry, there’s no excuse for her,” Héloïse groaned. Luckily, Sophie paid no attention to either Héloïse or the slightly shell-shocked moviestar on the other side of her path as she stomped past them, instead she went straight into the kitchen and started raiding the fridge.

”Probably best to not tell anyone about this,” Marianne half-whispered, voice heavy with the weight of an untold secret in more ways than one. She was tilting her head in a way that sent a wave of sympathy, followed by a horde of butterflies into Héloïse’s stomach, and Héloïse understood.

”Right. No one. I mean.. I’ll tell myself sometimes but don’t worry, I won’t believe it,” Héloïse said with a forlorn smile.

Marianne gathered her bags from the hallway floor, and after a pair of stilted goodbyes later she slipped through the door and out into the real world – that boring place where people didn’t buy terrible books or randomly kiss other people in hallways.

Once again Héloïse held on to the door handle, to steady herself while waiting for her brain to catch up when Sophie interrupted.

”There’s something wrong with this yoghurt,” she said, poking at a white-ish substance in a bowl.

”It’s not yoghurt, it’s créme fraiche,” Héloïse said with a sigh.

”Oh, right. That explains everything.”

 _No, it doesn’t_ , Héloïse thought. _It doesn’t explain anything, other than your borderline disgusting eating habits_.

”Hey, you up for a movie marathon tonight?” Sophie asked between spoonfuls of creme fraiche, when Héloïse came back down the stairs wearing a dry shirt. Héloïse got a strong feeling that her plans with David and friends had fallen through.

* * *

She should know better than to play rock-paper-scissors with Sophie to decide who got to pick a movie. Of course she won, and of course she picked the latest blockbuster with Marianne Robineau in it. As if Héloïse hadn’t seen enough of her today already. The movie was almost at its end, and all that remained was the big dramatic/romantic scene where Marianne’s character and the so-called hero (Héloïse thought he was a bit of a wanker with a lot of manpain to be honest) saved the world only to fall into each other’s arms right after.

”Imagine. Somewhere in the world there’s someone who’s allowed to kiss her,” Sophie whispered between mouthfuls of popcorn, as the generic white dude on screen went all Fabio and gathered Marianne in his arms.

”Yes, she is.. very fabulous,” Héloïse answered, trying her absolute hardest (and failing just as hard) to not think of the way Marianne had gasped and softened against her in her very own hallway earlier that day.

Then she turned to Sophie, a question on her face.

“I don’t discriminate,” Sophie said with a shrug. “Besides, David is a dickhead and boys are so much drama. Some variation might not hurt. And I mean, look at her,” she added with a nod at the screen where Marianne was still kissing the random dude, before it all faded to black.

“Yeah. Good point. Good point.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts?
> 
> Some people might notice that the core of this chapter is taken from a The 100 AU I wrote some five years ago and never updated past the first chapter. This one will be updated. It might take time, after the initial batch of chapters, but it will happen.


	2. London, April 14, 1999

**London, April 14, 1999  
**

_I don’t know why I did it. And at the same time I know so very well. It feels like I’m at a breaking point – life is moving so fast and at the same time it feels like I’ve gone absolutely nowhere in eight years. It’s just a spiral, of new scripts, new locations, galas, princeless dresses, shallow conversations. And in the middle, there I am. It’s as if I’ve aged a century in less than a decade, while also feeling like I’m not a day over 20 because nothing I do feels like anything actual adults might deal with._

_Most of all I just want to sit down. To sit on a couch with a stupid cup of tea and just.. Be._

_That’s probably why I did it. That, and the french, and the dumb little rainbow flag in the window of the book shop. And because I don’t think she recognised me at first. It was a nice interruption from how it usually is. God, I wish the world would just stop caring. About me, about who I’m with, about who I am. I wish I was unknown enough to walk back into a bookshop and ask the cute cashier for a date without having a horde of publicists breathing down my neck about it. She seems like such an enigmatic mix of long thoughts and mindless stutters. I want to know more about what makes a travel book good, or not, and how and why. If she travels, and where._

_I want to know more about her. I want to talk to her for long enough that she stops being so nervous. I want to know how long it would take for her to not be nervous. But I can’t. There’s no time, and this is not the place. The place for Marianne the Person is glaringly nonexistent these days. Marianne the Public Persona takes priority._

_I should probably get hold of her though. The girl from the bookshop, not Marianne the Person. (I know where_ **_she_ ** _is.)_

_To make sure. She seemed trustworthy, but I have learned. I need to be in control of this._


	3. Britain's premiere equestrian journalist

The rest of the week passed by without any movie stars casually disrupting Héloïse’s weekday routine. Not in the flesh, anyway. Apparently, there was a new movie coming out – starring Marianne Robineau, of course, which also explained her entering a London bookstore in the first place – and as the days went by she popped up in more and more places. Buses, tube stations – on Friday morning the entire front and back of the newspaper was covered in her face. The promotion madness was clearly in full swing and Marianne Robineau was everywhere, those curious hazel eyes looking right at Héloïse from hundreds of posters and billboards. And for the first time in her life, Héloïse had a hard time ignoring the face of a celebrity.

The whole thing was simply too absurd, and true to her word, Héloïse hadn’t told a living soul about it. She shuddered just thinking about what Martin or Matthieu would say if she actually tried to tell them. How do you even bring up something like that?

_How’s life? Oh you know, nothing special. Although , now that you mention it, I accidentally spilled juice on a celebrity the other day and after she got changed at my place she kissed me, pretty much out of the blue, and now I can’t stop thinking about it. How about you?_

No, Héloïse would keep this to herself. And think about it, a lot. Even without the constant presence of Marianne Robineau in photos and on posters, she would have had a hard time not to. The whole celebrity thing aside – Héloïse didn’t get surprise kisses very often and she couldn’t help but wonder what might have happened if Marianne had been, say, a friend of a friend, or at least someone living in London.

Would Héloïse have had the courage to ask for her phone number?

Honestly?

Probably not.

Would they have stumbled into each other again some time?

Not likely.

Would Marianne have asked for Héloïse’s number?

As if.

Suddenly, Héloïse was overcome with a sense of dread. She never even told Marianne her name. She’d just babbled about books and apricots soaked in honey. And Marianne never asked her for it. Who does that? Kiss a random stranger in the middle of the day when you don’t even know their name? When you’re among the top ten most publicly visible women in the world? And also has never ever shown any public inclination of the habit of kissing women. It was all too weird.

Héloïse closed the bookshop at 15 sharp on Saturday afternoon, and walked the shortest way home. It took her about eight-and-a-half minutes, and she only passed two advertising pillars and one bus with Marianne’s face plastered on them along the way.

Back home she was greeted by Sophie, who most likely had just gotten out of bed, and for some godforsaken reason was walking down the stairs wearing Héloïse’s old scuba dive suit that she’d gotten in her early twenties when her obsession with sea life had been at its peak following a gap year trip to Australia.

She left her bag in her bedroom and went down to grab a snack. Sophie was sitting on the kitchen counter, eating cereal out of a bowl (which was a progress) with a fork (which was just.. a very Sophie thing to do). Héloïse popped two slices of bread into the toaster and decided to bring up the elephant in the room.

”Just, incidentally, why.. are you wearing that?” she asked, gesturing in Sophie’s general direction.

”Combinations of factors, really. No clean clothes..” she swallowed a mouthful of cereal.

”There never will be, you know. Unless you actually clean your clothes,” Héloïse chastised her.

”Yeah, it’s a vicious circle,” Sophie mused, sounding like it wasn’t very vicious at all. ”Anyway, I was rooting around in your things and I found this and I thought ’cool’. Kinda.. spacey.”

After living with Sophie for about a year and a half, Héloïse knew that there was no idea to try and change her.. to put it nicely – very laid-back lifestyle. It would probably, hopefully happen anyway, someday, but as long as she did most of her chores and kept her hands off of Héloïse’s vast collection of books she didn’t really bother. The scuba suit had been in the wardrobe in the upstairs hallway anyway – she hadn’t barged into her room or anything. Plus, Héloïse hadn’t used it in years. Scuba diving in the Thames did not strike her as a pleasant prospect.

Héloïse finished making her sandwiches, poured herself a cup of tea and went up to the roof terrace. Sophie had rerouted up there ahead of her, and was stretched out on a low wall next to their neighbour’s chimney, dozing off in the sun.

”There’s something wrong with your goggles you know,” she told Héloïse when she sat down at the table.

”No, they were.. um, prescription.”

”Groovy.”

”So I could see all the fishes properly,” Héloïse explained and shuddered at the thought of how much the goggles had cost. She really ought to go on vacations more often.

”You should do more of this stuff,” Sophie said, echoing her thoughts. Héloïse nodded.

”Anyway, any messages today?” she asked her.

Just for the sake of annoying her small group of friends, she refused to have an answering machine, which meant Sophie was left in charge of writing down messages if she was home whenever Héloïse was out.

She wasn’t very good at it.

”Yeah, I wrote a couple down,” Sophie said while suppressing a yawn.

”So there were two messages?”

_Internal deep sigh._

”You want me to write down all of your messages?”

No, Sophie, why on earth would I want you to do that? Of course I want you to write down all the messages you dimwit, Héloïse thought.

”Okay.. what were the ones that you didn’t write down?” was what she actually said, praying that none of them would be important and/or work related.

”No idea.. gone completely. Oh, wait there was one from Matthieu, he wanted to remind us to not forget William’s birthday dinner tomorrow, and something about a coffee maker.”

”Was that all?”

”Absolutely no one else,” Sophie said with the sort of certainty that could only mean one thing – there had been other, now forgotten, messages.

”Though, if we’re going for this obsessive writing down all the messages-thing, a french girl called Marianne called a few days ago,” Sophie continued.

Bingo. There it was. What, wait, Marianne? Héloïse felt her heartbeat speed up and her ears getting warmer.

”What did she say?” she asked, trying her best to sound disinterested.

”Well, it was genuinely bizarre. She said: Hi, it’s Marianne. Then she said: Call me at the Ritz, and then gave herself a completely different name,” Sophie said.

”Which was?”

_Please remember, please remember, please, please, please remember._

”Absolutely no idea. Remembering one name is hard enough.”

Putain.

* * *

Half an hour later found Héloïse pacing in her living room, winding and unwinding the cord of the phone around various pieces of furniture as she went, occupied with what easily counted as the most embarrassing and frustrating phone call she’d made in her entire life.

”No, I.. I know that. She said that. Um. I know she’s using another name. The problem is that she left the message with my flatmate, which was a serious, serious mistake. Imagine if you will, the stupidest person you’ve ever met, are you doing that?”

”Yes miss, I have them in my mind,” the dry male voice of the Ritz receptionist on the other end of the line replied. Héloïse had a nagging feeling that the person she was talking to might be imagining her. Oh well, she could live with that.

”Right. And now double it. That’s the.. what can I say.. the absolute dimwit that I’m living with. And she can’t remember..” Héloïse’s pleading rant was interrupted by Sophie, who had taken a seat on the sofa opposite her, probably to entertain herself through eavesdropping on the disaster of a phone call.

”Try Flintstone,” Sophie said then, peering up at Héloïse from behind a book.

”Sorry, what? No, not you sir, my flatmate.”

”I think she said her name was Flintstone,” Sophie repeated.

”I don’t suppose Flintstone rings any bells, does it?” Héloïse said weakly to the voice on the other end of the line.

”I’ll put you right through, miss.”

”Oh my god.”

Héloïse went from nervous to nervous-er in the timespan of approximately half a second. She was calling Marianne. Marianne might pick up in a matter of seconds. What was Héloïse going to say? Why was she even calling her? How weird was this on a scale from perfectly normal to infinitely odd?

”Hello.” Héloïse tried to the still unanswered line. No, too stiff.

”Hi. Hi there.” Ugh. Too dorky. There really ought to be a “Casually Talking to Persons Who Randomly Kissed You for Dummies”-book. Héloïse felt as if she needed it. Heck, if she survived this, she’d write one herself. But maybe that title was a little too long to fit on a front cover.

Héloïse didn’t get any further in her plans for future writer stardom, because a familiar voice picked up on the other end.

”Yeah, this is Marianne.”

”H-hi! Hi. Sorry. It’s Héloïse.. Marchand.” Héloïse stammered, suddenly painfully aware of the fact that she never even told Marianne her name. ”Um, we.. I work in a b-bookshop,” she then added for clarification.

”Oh, the elusive travel book aficionado, hi,” Marianne replied and Héloïse cringed a little.

”Elusive?”

”Yeah, you know, playing cool and waiting three whole days before calling me back,” Marianne teased.

”Oh, no I promise you I’ve never played anything cool in my entire life, my flatmate, whom I’ll stab to death later, never gave me your message.” Héloïse took a quick look at Sophie who looked completely unaffected by the death threat. She’d have to up her game there. Later. Not now. Right now she was talking to Marianne who was just finishing up a sentence.

”..if you have the time.”

”I’m sorry, didn’t hear you.. my phone’s a bit shit, sorry,” Héloïse fibbed to cover up that she had zoned out due to murderous thoughts involving Sophie.

”I just asked if you have the time to meet up this weekend,” Marianne repeated, offering no further details.

Héloïse gulped. Meet up? Meet up was vague. Vague equals scary when you’re not the most sociable creature, and honestly a bit of a control freak. But if meet up meant meeting Marianne again? Héloïse quickly decided that she was all for it. She could hardly make a bigger fool out of herself than she already did this past Wednesday.

”I don’t know.. perhaps I could drop around for tea later or something?” Héloïse finally answered.

At that, Marianne chuckled, a small and delightful sound.

”I’m free tomorrow, after four. Come by then? The Ritz, third floor, room 38. Trafalgar Suite. Just ask someone on the hotel staff if you get lost, okay?”

”Right, right, yes, great. Bye,” Héloïse stammered. The line went silent but she remained seated with the phone to her ear for a short while, feeling a little bit stunned. After maybe half a minute it occurred to her that she still didn’t know how Marianne knew her name, nor how she’d gotten her home phone number.

Héloïse kept the phone to her ear and dialed Martin’s number.

”Mademoiselle, what’s up?” Martin answered after just one beep.

Héloïse decided to get straight to the point.

”Did you give my phone number to anyone this week? My home phone, not the bookshop number.”

”What if I did?”

”Martin, come on. Just yes or no.”

”Yes, as a matter of fact. Some girl called the bookshop when you were out for lunch with Matt and Will on Thursday, she asked for you and didn’t want me to take a message so I gave her your number. Why?”

”Nothing in particular, thanks Martin, see you on Monday.” Héloïse hung up before Martin could launch into a frenzy of questions.

So, now she knew how Marianne had gotten her number. Still didn’t explain how she knew her name. Maybe Martin had told her in passing. She debated calling him back, but decided against. The risk of interrogation was too high.

* * *

A quarter to four on Sunday afternoon saw a somewhat nervous Héloïse Marchand entering the glitzy lobby of The Ritz Hotel in central London. All the gold, marble and mirrors, over-the-top flower ornaments and shiny surfaces in general was a tad bit overwhelming, but Héloïse tried to push back her uncomfortableness as she walked over to the elevators. A blond man that looked a few years older than her was already waiting there, and she studied him briefly, feeling relieved and a little less out of place as she regarded his casual jeans-and-blazer look, which was more or less on par with what she was wearing.

”Which floor?” Héloïse asked him when one pair of elevator doors slid open.

”Three, please.”

They both got off, and since the hallway only went in one direction from the elevators, they stiffly engaged in a dance of who walks first before Héloïse squeezed past him and strode ahead. Marianne’s suite turned out to be at the very end of the hallway, and as Héloïse lifted her hand to knock she was surprised that the man was still right behind her.

”Eh, are you.. sure?” she asked, nodding at the door.

”Oh yeah, yeah I’m sure,” the man replied and took a sip from the coffee mug he was holding.

Seconds after Héloïse’s knuckles left the door it flung open and a woman surrounded with an air of getting shit done greeted them with a rushed ”Hi, I’m Zoe,” and promptly handed Héloïse a magazine of some sort, complete with a picture of Marianne’s face all over the front page, the same one she’d see plastered on buses and bins all week.

”Sorry, things are running a little bit late. You wanna come this way? Through here,” Zoe rattled off as she led Héloïse and the blond man through a hallway and into a bigger room full of people. Journalists, Héloïse figured after a quick look at her surroundings. Which probably meant that she had somehow stumbled right into some kind of press event. Terrific.Terrifying.

Unsure of whether that had been Marianne’s intention or not, Héloïse made the split second decision to play along as well as she could.

”So, what did you think of the film?” Zoe asked them.

”Yeah, I thought it was fantastic. It was Close Encounters meets Joan de Fleurette,” blond man said in a way that made Héloïse cringe a little. He gave off the vibe of someone who would gladly mansplain his favorite movies to anyone who happened to get in his way, and Héloïse found herself wishing that she’d had enough knowledge of film to challenge him. However, she knew that she didn’t, and settled for a mumbled ”I agree,” instead.

”I’m sorry, I didn’t jot down what magazines you’re from,” Zoe continued, while scribbling furiously on her clipboard.

”Time Out,” the blond man replied.

”Great, and you’re from..?”

Putain. Putain. What do I say? Héloïse scanned her surroundings for any inspiration, and settled on the first magazine she saw, lying forgotten on a small sofa table.

”Eh.. Horse & Hound.”

The woman, Zoe, raised an eyebrow and Héloïse felt her nerves turn into a jumbled mess. She was not prepared to handle this kind of environment on zero notice.

”Look, my name’s Héloïse Marchand, she.. Ms. Robineau might be expecting me,” she choked out, feeling her palms grow sweaty.

”Oh. Okay. Take a seat and I’ll go check,” Zoe said and disappeared into another hallway. Héloïse and the blond man, who for some godforsaken reason had decided to keep interacting with her, took a seat on one of the many couches scattered in the room. It was old and puffy, and even more uncomfortable than Héloïse had expected from the look of it.

”I see you brought her some flowers,” blond man said, gesturing to the small bouquet of tulips Héloïse was holding.

”Ah, haha. No, these are for my.. grandma, she’s in a hospital nearby. Thought I’d kill two birds with one stone you know,” Héloïse lied. This was quickly getting out of hand, a few more white lies and fabrications and she would lose track of what she’d said and inevitably mess up, but what could she do? No actual journalist would ever bring flowers to an interview. At least her jacket had deep enough pockets to plausibly hold a notepad and a recorder. Héloïse cringed internally, picturing herself as a lone, awkward and starstruck fan among hundreds of serious faces. Which was weird, she wasn’t even a fan. Being aware of a celebrity’s existence does not equal being a fan, Héloïse was sure of that much.

”Sure, right. Absolutely, yeah. Which hospital is it?” the blond man continued to probe, and Héloïse decided he must’ve had a background in tabloids, what with his apparent inability to stop asking superficial questions.

”Do you mind me not saying? It’s a rather distressing disease and the name of the hospital kinda gives it away,” Héloïse said, trying to look as sad as possible, and hoping that he’d accept her lieu of an answer because one thing she absolutely did not know from the top of her head was the names of any hospital in central London.

”Oh, yeah, sure.”

”Cheers.” Héloïse meant it, she was genuinely thankful that the man appeared to have given up his lame attempts of conversation and instead turned his attention towards his cellphone. Héloïse nervously flipped through the pages of the press kit for the movie she of course hadn’t seen, since it wasn’t set to open for the public until next week, until Zoe reappeared a couple of minutes later.

”Right, ehm, Ms. Marchand, can you come this way?”

Héloïse stumbled as she stood up and rushed to follow Zoe. When they approached a pair of white, tall doors Zoe said ”you’ve got five minutes,” in a way that probably wasn’t meant to be threatening but made Héloïse feel threatened all the same, then stepped aside to let her in.

The room was just as pompously furnished as every other part of the hotel Héloïse had seen – flower arrangements on pedestals, heavy cream colored curtains, a marble fireplace, mirrors and gold details absolutely everywhere. In the middle, placed on a thick persian carpet, was another uncomfortably looking sofa and two chairs set around a small table with spindly wooden legs.

Marianne was standing by the balcony doors, with her back to the room, looking out at the park on the other side of the street. The sunshine streaming through the glass made her hair shimmer and shine, glimmers of deep red and chestnut among the dark strands.

”Hi!” Héloïse said as Marianne turned around.

”Hello,” Marianne replied and peered at Héloïse who still hovered on the doorstep. She hesitantly walked towards the middle of the room, towards Marianne, not really knowing what she could expect from this.. meeting, for lack of a better word. Maybe Marianne wanted her to sign some sort of non-disclosure agreement to make sure that their out-of-the-blue kiss never came to anyone else’s knowledge. Héloïse imagined that to be the kind of things celebrities did after making rash decisions.

As the door slammed closed behind her, Héloïse relaxed a little. Now she could drop the journalist act, at least.

”Um.. I brought these but.. clearly..” Héloïse stuttered, handing the small bouquet of tulips she had brought to Marianne, while gesturing at the enormous flower arrangements next to the fireplace.

”No, they’re great, they’re great! Thank you.” Marianne smiled and placed the bouquet next to a couple of water bottles on the table.

”Look, I’m sorry about not calling back. The whole two names concept was way too much to handle for my flatmate’s mysterious mind,” Héloïse explained, her eyes flickering from Marianne to the window, to one of the numerous mirrors, and back again.

”No, don’t apologise. It’s a stupid privacy thing. I always pick a cartoon character, last time I was Miss Bambi,” Marianne said with a slight chuckle and Héloïse couldn’t help but smile too. Marianne’s smile was turning out to be quite contagious.

They were standing opposite each other on either side of the tiny table as a somewhat comfortable silence set in the room. Héloïse waited for Marianne to elaborate on why she’d wanted to meet again, but Marianne didn’t say anything. She just stood there, smiling slightly and looking Héloïse straight in the eyes. It was unnerving and calming at the same time, and Héloïse was starting to feel a bit dazed, and contemplated looking away again, when the doors opened.

”Everything alright?” a bald, middle-aged man asked as he entered the room.

”Yes, thank you,” Marianne snapped back to reality and turned to the man, who Héloïse suspected was some sort of publicist.

”I’m Scott Elwood, Ms. Robineau’s PR manager. And you’re from.. Horse & Hound,” the man said, turning to Héloïse. ”Good.”

For a second, Marianne looked as if she was about to start laughing, but she recovered quickly and sat down on the sofa.

”That’s um.. well..” Marianne mumbled, gesturing for Héloïse to take a seat in one of the chairs.

”So.. I’ll just.. fire away then, shall I?”

Héloïse threw a hesitant gaze towards Mr. Elwood, who had taken a seat in a corner, idly flipping through some documents and apparently held zero intention to leave. She didn’t get a response from him, but Marianne gave her a reassuring smile and Héloïse took a deep breath.

Make up questions about a movie you haven’t seen. You can do this Héloïse, come on.

”Right.” She fell silent again, staring at the picture of Marianne on the press kit and begging her brain to come up with something, anything before Mr. Elwood got too suspicious.

”Soo.. the film’s great, and um, I was just wondering whether you ever thought of having.. more horses in it?” Héloïse tried.

At that, Mr. Elwood loudly cleared his throat, without looking up from his papers, and as Héloïse took a quick glance at Marianne, the actress once again looked like she was about to start laughing. Then Marianne schooled her facial features, and went all professional.

”Well, we would have liked to, but it was difficult obviously, with it being set in space.”

Putain. Of course. The starry background on the promo picture made so much more sense now.

”Space, right yeah, obviously. Very difficult,” Héloïse mumbled, concentrating very hard on not visibly squirming in her seat, and looking anywhere but at Marianne.

A couple of seconds dragged on, to Héloïse they felt like forever as she was wracking her brain to come up with another, less shitty question. Then Mr. Elwood and all the cosmic spirits and gods known to man decided that Héloïse had suffered enough, and he got up and left the room. Héloïse took a deep breath of relief.

”I’m so sorry, when I arrived outside they thrust this thing in my hand, I didn’t..” she began, but Marianne interrupted her.

”No, it’s my fault, we’re running late, I thought this would all be over by now. I just wanted to apologize for the kissing thing, I seriously don’t know what came over me, and I just wanted to make sure that you were fine about it.” Marianne didn’t look away for a second, her honest gaze was pinning Héloïse to the uncomfortable chair, as she felt a wave of vague disappointment crash over her.

”Yeah, yeah, yeah.. absolutely fine.” Héloïse barely had any time to process before the door opened again and Mr Elwood returned.

”Do remember that Ms. Robineau is also keen to talk about her next project, which is shooting later in the summer,” he said, and replaced an empty bottle of water with a full one before returning to his papers in the corner.

”Ah, yes. Excellent. Any horses in that one?” Héloïse tried. ”Or hounds for that matter, our readers are equally intrigued by both species.” Her voice was a bit steadier now, and even though Héloïse wouldn’t say she enjoyed this absurd situation, she had started to find her footing, and felt somewhat okay with keeping up her ridiculous cover, encouraged by the ever-present hit of a smile on Marianne’s face.

”It takes place on a submarine.” Marianne said with a tone of finality and mild devastation, scrunching her nose in the most adorable way.

”Oh. Bad luck. But um.. if there were horses in it, would you be riding them or would you be getting a stunt horse double.. man.. woman.. thing?” Héloïse stuttered, her confidence from ten seconds ago draining faster than water in a sink with newly rinsed pipes.

Once again Mr. Elwood decided to exit the room, and Héloïse buried her head in her hands.

”I’m a complete moron, I’m so sorry,” she moaned while staring at her feet. ”This is very weird, it’s the sort of thing that happens in dreams, not in real life. I mean, in good dreams. It’s a dream, in fact, to see you again.”

At that, Marianne was quiet for a little while, studying Héloïse who felt like she was well on her way to combusting from too much nervous energy. Héloïse looked back at her, unsure what to make of the silence and the strangely endeared look on Marianne’s face.

Then, Marianne tilted her head a little to the side, and with a voice so small it was a borderline whisper asked ”What happens next in the dream?”

Héloïse thought about it for a second, and then said something that she in hindsight would describe as her subconscious deciding to challenge the rest of her. That or being completely out of her usually so contained character.

”I suppose in a dream world I just.. change my personality a bit, because you can do that in dreams,” she said, her head suddenly filled with movie-like scenarios that would never play out in real life because Héloïse was Héloïse – not some suave love interest in a romcom, ”and um.. walk over and.. kiss the girl, but..”

Héloïse’s body surely had acquired a mind of its own today, detached from the part of her brain that she was aware of and could control, because next thing she knew she was about to rise from her chair and walk over to Marianne and make good on her daydream, and Héloïse was getting more convinced by the second that she had, in fact, crossed over into a parallel dimension because Héloïse Marchand had never in her almost 29 years of life done something as reckless as that but here she was, and Marianne was giving her a look that said a thousand things, but none of those things was ”no” or ”don’t” and it would be the work of a second, three steps across the stupid fluffy carpet to walk over to Marianne and just..

And in that very second, the sound of a doorknob being pushed down cracked through the silent room, and the PR manager from Héloïse’s personal hell reappeared in the doorway.

Héloïse was frozen in that awkward position you’re in when you’ve just risen from a chair but got startled halfway through and are currently crookedly stuck between standing and sitting. She tore her gaze away from Marianne’s eyes and slumped back in the chair with all the weight of her interrupted spontaneity pushing her down.

”Time’s up I’m afraid. Did you get what you wanted?” Mr. Elwood asked, oblivious to the tension Héloïse felt buzzing like static in the still air of the room.

”Um, nearly. Nearly.” Héloïse sighed.

”Maybe just one last question then?” Mr. Elwood offered.

”Sure,” Héloïse said, as Mr. Elwood closed the door behind himself. A fleeting, frustrated thought about how all that coming and going of his must be a nuisance to a real reporter too shot through Héloïse’s mind.

Then she turned back to Marianne, then looked at the carpet, then back to Marianne again. It was now or never, and Héloïse figured that this whole thing was so improbable that she might as well take a final risk before morphing back into her usual, more cautious self.

”Are you.. busy tonight?” Héloïse asked with her heart in her throat and her eyes locked firmly onto Marianne’s knees.

”Yes,” Marianne answered.

”Oh, right.” Héloïse felt her voice cracking a little and looked up, trying to apologize for being so forward through her eyes only, because speaking suddenly felt very difficult.

The door swung open again and Mr. Elwood entered with another man in tow, the next person rewarded with five minutes of Marianne Robineau’s precious time.

”Well, it was nice to meet you,” Marianne said and shook Héloïse’s hand.

”Yes. And you,” Héloïse replied. She looked at their joined hands, hyperaware that her own hand was clammy but Marianne made no effort to let go.

”Surreal, but nice,” Marianne chuckled, her eyes lighting up as she smiled at the inside joke. Or was it a joke? Héloïse wasn’t sure – Marianne smiling made her brain useless and fuzzy, and she didn’t seem uncomfortable at all, despite Héloïse’s lame way try to ask her out right before.

”Thank you,” Héloïse smiled back and added ”you’re Horse & Hound’s favorite actress. You and Black Beauty. Tied.”

Héloïse left the room with the sound of Marianne’s tiny laughter reverberating in her head.

* * *

The second Héloïse stepped out in the crowded corridor she wanted to go back into the stillness of the interview room. There were people everywhere and a loud wall of noise from conversations, keyboards clattering and unanswered phones buzzing. The hotel suite felt like a hellish maze, and Héloïse wasn’t sure which way led out of it. A knock on her shoulder startled her, she jumped around and came face to face with the annoying journalist from earlier.

”How was she?” he asked, his head in a weird angle from squeezing a phone between his cheek and shoulder.

”Oh, um.. fabulous,” Héloïse said, because that felt like an adequate way of describing Marianne Robineau. She was just about to excuse herself when the annoying man spoke again.

”What a minute, did she take your grandma’s flowers?” he asked.

Shit. The flowers. She’d forgotten about them.

”Yeah.. that’s right..” Héloïse hesitated, then added ”Bitch,” for good measure.

Saying that out loud made her stomach churn. Marianne Robineau was, as far as Héloïse could tell, anything but bitchy.

Two seconds later, Zoe the press woman resurfaced, and before Héloïse knew it or had a chance to protest she was ushered into another interview room and standing face to face with an actor she’d never seen before and didn’t know the name of.

”Ms. Marchand is from Horse & Hound,” Zoe said and promptly left the room.

Héloïse wanted to throw herself out the nearest window.

”How’s it going?” the actor, a black man in his forties said with an easy smile.

”F-f-fine, thank you,” Héloïse stammered and after shaking the man’s hand she sat down in yet another uncomfortable and antique chair. Fake interviewing Marianne was one thing, a strange and random thing but Marianne at least knew of the whole absurd mess up. Fake interviewing an actor she didn’t know the name of about a movie she hadn’t seen was.. a nightmare.

”So, did you enjoy the film?” the actor said, and Héloïse realized that she’d been silent and zoned out for way too long.

”Yes. Enormously.”

”Well, fire away.” He looked at her expectantly.

”Right. Did you enjoy making the film?”

”Yes, I did.”

”Good. Any bit in particular?”

”You tell me what bit you enjoyed the most and I’ll tell you if I enjoyed making that bit.”

”I.. liked the bit in space. Very much.”

Right after saying the words Héloïse was hit with a sudden and horrible insight. What if the entire movie was set in space?

From then on it only went worse. The following hour or so Héloïse was ushered from one vaguely familiar actor to the next in five-minute intervals with very little time off in-between. On the upside her sad excuses for questions got better and better the longer it went on as she learned more about the plot from answers, but on the downside she was overwhelmed and got more tired and spacey by the second. She contemplated telling Zoe the truth several times but the fear of being mistaken for some kind of stalker, or putting Marianne in trouble, kept her from doing so.

Héloïse had just staggered back to one of the waiting areas and was making herself a cup of tea while simultaneously plotting her own escape from this hellhole, when a familiar voice called out for her.

”Ms. Marchand?” Zoe asked.

”Oh no..” Héloïse muttered under her breath and stared at her teacup.

”Have you got a minute?”

”No.” Héloïse said, surprising herself. Not that it mattered, Zoe more or less grabbed her by the arm and dragged her along down one of the many hallways of the hotel suite. Héloïse just had the time to recognize a familiar pair of white doors before she was inside the room, once again face-to-face with Marianne Robineau.

”Hi,” Marianne rose from her chair by the window and walked over to Héloïse.

”Hi.”

Marianne looked bashful and Héloïse felt more than a confused as to why she was back here again.

”Um.. yeah,” Marianne mumbled, wringing her hands and looking anywhere but at Héloïse. ”So, the thing I was doing tonight, I’m not doing it anymore. I told them I had to spend the evening with Britain’s premiere equestrian journalist.”

She went quiet and looked up, and once again Héloïse got the feeling that she was talking to Marianne the person, not Marianne the public persona slash movie star. Because why would Marianne the public persona look at her like she was currently doing?

”Oh. Well, great! Fantastic, that’s.. technically I'm half-french but- oh, shittity-pricketty, it’s my best friend’s boyfriend’s birthday. Shit. We’re meant to be having dinner.”

”Okay, that’s fine.”

”No, I’m sure I can get out of it.”

”No, I mean if it’s fine with you I’ll.. be your date?”

”You.. you’ll be my date to my best friend’s boyfriend’s birthday party?” Héloïse asks again because she can't quite believe her ears.

”If it’s alright.” Marianne looks unsure, and that needs to be amended, quickly.

”Yeah, I’m sure it’s alright. My friend Matthieu is cooking, and he’s generally acknowledged to be the worst cook in the world, but.. you know, you can hide the food in your hand bag or something.”

”Okay.”

”Okay.”


	4. London, April 18, 1999

**London, April 18, 1999**

_I think I’m about to get myself into some serious trouble. I was only supposed to see her quickly, straighten out any question marks. But maybe my brilliant idea wasn’t so brilliant because when I saw her again I just.._

_It wasn’t enough._

_How does she do it? Those bursts of uncensored honesty despite the crazy situation I got her in? I felt so bad for her when Scott kept coming and going. Sometimes he’s so unhelpful. I know that me keeping things from him makes things difficult_ **_for him_ ** _, what with the public image and knowledge and everything yada yada, but I have to have the right to things of my own. For myself. And it is certainly not my fault that a press junket runs hours behind schedule and that I have things planned in hours that are supposed to be free._

_But work is hard on everybody. The look on Zoe’s face when she realised that Héloïse was not a journalist, but a.. friend? Let’s go with friend for now ( ~~even though I can honestly say that my thoughts about her are struggling to stay in the realm of what’s entirely friendly)~~. And that she had powered through a handful of interviews with various actors for a movie she has most certainly not seen. I need to ask her why she did it, why she just didn’t explain herself to Zoe and leave. _

_I owe her. Or maybe I don’t. Maybe I just want a slice of her life, of normal. Maybe I should know better than going with an almost-stranger to the birthday party of a person I’ve never met, but I’m so tired of second guessing and.. fuck, I’m also short on time._

_Conclusion: I want to feel more alive. And whatever this is, it makes me feel. Things._


End file.
